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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28859865">Ushant to Scilly</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellarunciter/pseuds/ellarunciter'>ellarunciter</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Terror (TV 2018)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Canon Compliant, Gen, One Shot</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 05:22:26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>980</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28859865</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellarunciter/pseuds/ellarunciter</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"Spanish Ladies" is one of my favourite sea shanties (although maybe not technically a shanty) and in my head it's got Strong James Fitzjames Vibes. Francis POV. The version I'm thinking about when I think of this song would be Sarah Blasko's, but you know, sung by a bunch of Cold Boys. Which is probably not historically accurate, but hey, it's my headcanon.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Francis Crozier/James Fitzjames</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>24</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Ushant to Scilly</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The men were singing.</p>
<p>They heard them as they were wrapping up a command meeting that had been as good as one could expect in their current predicament: Camp organised, perimeter established, provisions accounted for, the sick comfortable and in stable condition. Crozier dismissed his officers with a smile, and the Lieutenants (and Goodsir, who seemed to finally be starting to overcome his shyness amongst the officers) left the tent with wide grins on their faces.</p>
<p>After the perilous trip on the ice, the last sledge parties were finally at Rescue Camp, and for the first time in weeks the whole crew was together. <em>Rescue Camp</em>, they called it, although Crozier knew too well that rescue was still far from them. <em>And start on tomorrow 26th for Backs Fish River</em>, he'd written just this morning. Writing those words, and sealing them in a can, and placing them in the cairn, had felt half like a relief, half like an omen.</p>
<p>James had signed, too, <em>James Fitzjames Captain HMS Erebus</em>. He now lingered in the tent, sorting the papers on the table, until Francis walked by him, gently touched his elbow, and asked him, <em>Shall we?</em></p>
<p><em>Yes. Yes.</em> He smiled back at Francis, and they stepped outside together. </p>
<p>The song came to an end just as they reached the campfire. Most of the men were gathered around, some holding cups of grog, all standing as if ready to start a dance. There was a moment of silence as the crew aknowledged the captains with a nod (some even touching knuckles to forehead, as if they had not been hauling the boats side by side mere hours ago). Crozier chuckled. <em>Carry on, men!, </em>he cheered.</p>
<p>It was the young captain of the foretop, Harry Peglar, who started singing again, and two verses in, at least half a dozen men had joined him:</p>
<p>
  <em>Farewell and adieu to you, Spanish ladies, </em><br/>
<em>Farewell and adieu to you, ladies of Spain; </em><br/>
<em>For we have received orders for to sail to old England,</em><br/>
<em>But we hope in a short time to see you again.  </em>
</p>
<p>Le Vesconte had the strongest voice amongst them, and a fine one, too. Francis turned to look at James, half expecting to hear him join the song. Was singing one of Fitzjames' many talents? He couldn't tell, as he had spent most dinners on Erebus actively trying to not hear his neverending boasts. But his Second stood in silence, wearing a noncommital smile.</p>
<p>Maybe he didn't know the words. That song was already old when Francis had joined the Navy, but he'd heard some bloke had published it in a novel a few years back, and it had a small revival in the halls of the Admiralty before their departure. Typical Navy song, describing a trip back to England after some war or another, the sailors merrily saying goodbye to their local lovers, and no doubt a whole bunch of children conceived out of wedlock...</p>
<p><em>Fuck</em>.</p>
<p>He could feel his own brow rising and made a point of looking somewhere else, anywhere else. Francis Crozier's face had never let him keep a secret; it had caused him much trouble troughout the years, to not be able to conceal his emotions, whether concern, or contempt for his superiors. But this was different, he was now entrusted with someone else's secrets. <em>I'm not even fully English</em>, James had said, face contorted with shame. As if Francis would care for his lineage, himself a middleborn Irishman who had been shunned for it all his life. <em>I'm a fake, brother.</em></p>
<p>
  <em>We'll rant and we'll roar, like true British sailors,</em><br/>
<em>We'll rant and we'll roar all on the salt seas; </em><br/>
<em>Until we strike soundings in the Channel of old England,</em><br/>
<em>From Ushant to Scilly 'tis thirty-five leagues. </em>
</p>
<p>Le Vesconte, still singing, put a cup in James' hands and carried him away from Francis, to the spot where Irving was standing near the fire, doing his best to join the singing even though it was clear that he didn't know the words. Little was there, too, not even trying to sing but nodding along to the music. More men had joined for the chorus, but the next verse was sung only by Peglar and Le Vesconte.</p>
<p>It was a beautiful song, and a fitting one too. A song about the way back home. </p>
<p>
  <em>The first land we sighted was called the Dodman</em><br/>
<em>Next Ram Head, off Plymouth, Start, Portland, and Wight</em><br/>
<em>We sailed by Beechy, by Fairly and Dover</em><br/>
<em>And then bore away for the South Foreland light. </em>
</p>
<p>Not Beechy, no. <em>Beachy</em>, thought Crozier. Beachy Head, down in the Channel with its white cliffs. Not Beechy Island in the Arctic, with its three frozen graves. He felt cold, all of a sudden, and he stepped closer to the fire. Tom Hartnell moved aside to let him pass, and Francis caught a whiff of the man's drink. It didn't smell appealing (he had never liked rum), but the mere smell of alcohol made him wince. He patted Hartnell on the shoulder, though, and smiled at the men around him. James met his eyes from across the fire, smiling too, but Francis could see something else in his eyes. What exactly was James thinking, or feeling, he could not tell. This was his Commander face (no, his <em>Captain</em> face now), agreeable and stolid. <em>He is good at this, </em>Francis thought.<em> Better than me.</em> </p>
<p>
  <em>Now let ev'ry man drink off his full bumper,</em><br/>
<em>And let ev'ry man drink off his full glass;</em><br/>
<em>We'll drink and be jolly</em><br/>
<em>And drown melancholy,</em><br/>
<em>And here's to the health of each true-hearted lass.</em>
</p>
<p>Every drink was raised, then. All of them, except the one in James's hand. Francis, empty handed, felt his gaze upon him but did not dare lock eyes with him again. His damn face had never let him keep a secret, after all.  </p>
<p> </p>
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